Monday Mist and the Magic of Moving Forward

Hello, friends. I hope your Monday started with a bit more grace than mine did. The alarm went off at 5:00 am as usual, and I could hear Mark already moving about in the dark, gathering his boots and his thermos for another long day at the construction site. There is a specific kind of quiet that fills our little blue house on Sycamore Street before the sun comes up, a stillness that feels both heavy and hopeful. I lay there for a moment, listening to the floorboards creak, feeling so immensely grateful for that man’s steady hands and his willingness to face the Iowa morning before the rest of us are even awake.

Once the door clicked shut behind him at 5:30, I knew I had a choice. I could roll back into the warmth of the quilt, or I could lace up my sneakers. With the Harvest 5K looming in October, I’ve been trying to keep the momentum I found during Saturday’s six-mile milestone. The air was thick with mist when I stepped onto the porch, the kind of damp grayness that makes the petunias in Joanne’s garden look like they’re dripping with jewels. I saw her briefly, though she wasn’t in her usual pink bathrobe yet; she was just a shadow behind her window, likely getting her coffee started.

I managed three miles today. It wasn't the fast, exhilarating pace I felt on Friday, but it was honest work. My legs felt the weight of yesterday’s recovery walk, yet there is something so empowering about seeing my own breath in the air and knowing that I am showing up for myself. I think so much of our self-worth is tied to these invisible promises we keep. When I hit the two-mile mark near the old water tower, I realized I wasn't just running away from the laundry or the dishes; I was running toward a version of Lucy who is stronger, more capable, and deserves to feel good in her own skin.

By the time I got back, the house was a whirlwind. Noah was already downstairs in his velociraptor pajamas, insisting that his toy T-Rex needed a share of his Cheerios. Emma was at the kitchen table, supposedly finishing the math worksheet she forgot in her backpack over the weekend, but when I looked over her shoulder, I saw a beautiful, charcoal-sketched horse galloping across the margin of her long division problems. It’s hard to be cross about forgotten homework when you see that kind of spark in your child’s eyes. She has so much magic in her, and I never want to be the one to dampen it.

Biscuit was a saint through the morning chaos, patiently waiting for the kids to drop a stray bit of toast. After I got them off to school and daycare, I spent a few hours in the kitchen working on 'Lucy’s Little Light.' I have a large order for the bakery—Megan wants a special 'Autumn Harvest' scent to display near the register at Sweet Magnolia. I spent the morning whisking soy wax and experimenting with notes of clove and dried orange. The house smells divine now, like a cozy hug, and it makes the financial side of this little hustle feel so much more rewarding. Seeing those Etsy notifications pop up gives me a sense of independence that I didn't know I was missing.

I took a quick trip down to the bakery around noon to drop off a sample for Megan. She was busy behind the counter, her apron dusted in flour, but she gave me that knowing wink that says we’ll catch up properly during pickleball this coming Saturday. I even popped upstairs to the salon to see if Dani had a cancellation for a trim, but she was booked solid. It’s a good sign for local business, I suppose. Walking through the shop and smelling the sawdust from Miller’s Hardware next door reminded me that I have a shift tomorrow. I actually look forward to the rhythm of the hardware store; there’s something grounding about the smell of timber and the simple task of balancing Mr. Miller’s books.

This afternoon was spent doing the deep-cleaning that I usually put off. I tackled the mudroom, which was overflowing with Mark’s work gear and the kids’ stray shoes. As I scrubbed the floors, I thought about our ninth anniversary coming up. Nine years is a long time, yet sometimes it feels like we’re just getting started. I caught my reflection in the hallway mirror—face flushed from the cleaning, hair in a messy knot—and for the first time in a long while, I didn't look for the flaws. I just saw a woman who is loved, who is working hard, and who is building a life that feels authentic.

There is a quiet power in these mundane Mondays. We don't always need grand gestures or massive shifts to feel like we are growing. Sometimes, personal growth is just choosing the three-mile run when you’d rather sleep, or finding the patience to admire a horse drawn on a math paper instead of scolding the artist. It’s about the slow build, the steady rhythm, and the knowledge that we are enough exactly as we are, even in the middle of the mist.

Mark just pulled into the driveway—right on time at 5:20. I can hear Biscuit’s tail thumping against the front door already. The sun is starting to dip, and the mist from this morning has cleared into a beautiful, crisp evening. I’m going to put the phone away and be present for my family. We’re having simple pasta tonight, but I’ll light one of the new candles and make it feel like something special. Because it is special, isn't it? This life we get to live.

I hope you found a little bit of light in your day today, too. Whether you hit your mileage or just managed to get the dishes done, you are doing a wonderful job. I am proud of you, and I am proud of us.

I love you. — Lucy